


tangent.

by crimsonsea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, May add more AU tags in the future, Pining, Romance, slowburn, split soul (literally)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26873314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonsea/pseuds/crimsonsea
Summary: Tom Riddle’s attempt at making one of his horcruxes backfires: a piece of his soul becomes somewhat of a ghost. His invisible soul is sentenced to watch his physical half become a monster over the years. He is also trapped in his affections for a witch in the process.(The diary does not become a horcrux.)— REMAKE of my former fic, “Absent Touch”.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	tangent.

  
He watched himself walk away and didn’t need to move a muscle.  


* * *

The trees bled red and gold under a partly cloudy sky. Sturdy buildings began to wither away with traces of grime creeping along the corners. The quiet sound of a bird echoed throughout the crisp air as dead leaves drifted feet away from their resting places. The cobblestone streets were void of anyone except for what was arguably a man, cloaked in black with a firm grasp on his wand. The atmosphere would have seemed bleak and cold to others within it, but Tom had not sensed such a thing. He had no warm-blooded body to feel the cold biting his nose, the wind against his cheeks, the scent of autumn filling his head.

Tom painstakingly took in the fatigue and ugliness that ate away his other half, and mentally tallied off his trinkets with corpses. 

The cup, Hepzibah Smith. The locket, a muggle. The diadem, a peasant. Eventually there were more bodies than items. Pale and bony and almost utterly deformed, hundreds still kneeled at his feet. 

Tom snorted at the thought. As always, Voldemort couldn’t hear him. Grown accustomed to being ignored by even the Hogwarts ghosts back then, he didn’t expect anything more since the day of the diary. Since the day he became useless. Since the day he was never heard again. 

Frowning, he looked at the sun he hadn’t felt in decades. It would never be as bright as the green of his kill.

* * *

Doors slammed, plates crashed, and a man yelled until his throat was dry. The stench of smoke and dark curses overwhelmed the aroma of Saturday brunch and spilled Earl Grey. The house in Godric’s Hollow brimmed with chaos until James Potter’s body surrendered to the messy floor, no longer breathing.

All noise that was left were the sounds of a woman’s faint whispers soothing a child’s cries, sounds which Voldemort stalked toward with the eventual spell ready in his mind as well as his hand.

_“Harry, you are loved. Harry, Momma loves you.”_ It was only a matter of time for Lily Potter to lie dead at both of their feet.

The prophecy was an infant in a wooden crib. He donned a periwinkle onesie with tiny sailboats embroidered at its center, black thread spelling HELLO under waves sewn in indigo. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, bewilderment, and a hint of fear. Tom thought he wouldn’t stand a chance, and for the second time in his life, he was wrong.

Tom Riddle stood there when he watched himself die.

(To his disappointment, however, he continued to stand.)

* * *

_“Gryffindor!”_

The table of red and gold practically screamed in excitement, their applause just as deafening. Harry Potter leapt off the stool and ran toward the flock of students, crinkled jade eyes underneath thick, round frames and a wide grin between dimples of mirth. After exchanging pleasantries with the upperclassmen, he sat beside a boy with fiery hair.

Hogwarts’ students hurried away to their dorms after their feast, house elves marching into the cafeteria to dispose of the clutter. The professors, except for Snape, spoke lovingly of the boy with a lightning-shaped scar, occasional sighs of pity and awe escaping their breaths. Quirrell, ever-nervous, hid his secret perfectly under broken strings of praise.Voldemort’s feelings of disgust, however, were a sharp contrast.

_“A Weasley,”_ Voldemort thought to himself, his emaciated form hidden beneath a coward’s headdress. _“His first friend is a_ Weasley _.”_ Yet Tom noticed he was even more offended by Potter’s house. A house he personally chose.

 _ “Not Slytherin.”_ Potter’s words rang like a mantra in Tom’s head. _“_ _Not Slytherin.”_

But he couldn’t find it in himself to blame the boy, after all.

* * *

The many safekeepings of his soul were still kept as fragments within unassuming vessels, dispersed wherever magic allowed him years ago. The sense of security which Potter would feel in the morning, unfortunately, would be a temporary lie he would have to shoulder. Tom wondered which horcrux would be discovered next and imagined the fashion in which it would be destroyed. Others would've grown mad in their pursuit for the solution, but he hoped that, one day, an Fiendfyre would burn that treasure to ash.

In the middle of the mysterious room, he watched it succumb to flames, remaining insusceptible to the searing warmth.

Strangely, what he wasn’t invulnerable to was his reflection in the mirror. Taking a step forward, he touched the surface with a trembling hand.

Thick hair, dark and coiffed, and complexion pale yet somewhat alive, he hadn’t changed in nearly half a century. His Prefect badge was still pinned to his robes and his Slytherin tie remained pristinely knotted and firm around his white collar. His grey blazer and slacks looked freshly ironed, and his black Oxford shoes reflected the fires around him.

Then he noticed the eyes. Replacing what used to be pride and arrogance were melancholy, exhaustion, and an expression he couldn’t quite label.

He continued to stare into the glass.

* * *

_ "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts.” _

* * *

  
Tom Riddle saw himself dissolve into bits and pieces.

He then watched a silhouette of a girl pick up the shards, one by one, and proceed to make him whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> Remake! Hopefully my writing is better. Thanks for starting this ride (maybe again) with me. I would love to hear feedback!


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